Title: I Can't Believe
By: jettblack0110
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: R
Warnings: Language and adult content!
Summary: Why did Nick leave when things were just getting heated?
Spoilers: Teeny ones for Play With Fire, Viva Las Vegas, No Humans Involved, and Who Shot Sherlock?

***

He sits sandwiched between Nick and Sara, beginning his fourth beer, a smile growing wider with each sip. Forget the failed proficiency test, forget the lab-Greg is a full-fledged CSI Level One. He could have punched Nick and Warrick for making him think he was in trouble with Grissom, but that feeling dissolved as he spun that chair and looked that dummy in the eye. 'You Passed' the sign said, but the smiles on his friends', no, his family's faces said it louder than any black print could.

They must have known Grissom was going to pass him, there's no other way Catherine would've known to bring champagne and glasses. First the champagne, now the beers, and a slight giddiness is racing its way through his body. The loving embraces of Sara and Catherine, Warrick's brotherly handshake, Grissom's approval: nothing could beat the high he was feeling. But it was Nick's warm hand on his shoulder that made him feel like he was walking on air. He couldn't keep the grin off his face as Nick touched him, even when Ecklie slimed in to get them back to work.

It's just a crush, Greg tells himself as he takes another pull on his beer. He's not fixating on the fact that he's pressed against Nick shoulder to knee, or the fact that with every beer Nick seems to get warmer against him. No, right now he's concentrating on anything but Nick, because if he acknowledges him, glaringly obvious things are going to occur below his belt. Greg can't help it, it's Nick's fault for being so damn gorgeous.

He remembers the first day he met Nick Stokes. Fresh out of graduate school, new to Sin City, he followed Grissom like an eager puppy, not wanting to screw up on his first day. Grissom led him to the break room where three people sat. Catherine was beautiful, but definitely not Greg's type. Warrick was handsome, but a little too dark for Greg's taste, and not in the superficial, skin color kind of way. But Nick, Nick was breathtaking. Like a ray of sunshine cutting through the slit in the curtains. Blinding grin as he wrung Greg's hand, Greg nearly melting at the sound of that erotic Southern twang.

Yeah, he had it bad. And maybe, just maybe, it's part of the reason he wanted to become a CSI so badly. He can spend more time with Nick now on cases, assuming Nick wants him around. But Greg feels like he's proven himself, so Nick should take the bait.

Greg is pulled from his reverie by Nick's booming laughter. He notices that he and Nick are alone in the circular booth, and that Nick is watching Catherine show Warrick some of her more questionable dance moves. The ones she got paid for in the past. Greg joins in the laughter, delighting at the fluffy warmth that seems to have found residence in his chest. It's a little hard to hear over the buzzing in his ears, but the music is loud enough for the bass to be vibrating the table. He takes another pull at his beer, which has gotten warm from his palm. The dance floor seems to have swallowed Cath and Warrick, and it's just him and Nick in a drunken haze. This is bad news, now nothing can keep his focus off of the man sitting next to him. Even with the extra room in the booth, Nick hasn't scooted over, and he's radiating heat onto Greg's already feverish skin.

The waitress stops by their table, gathering empty bottles and Nick's order for water. She sticks around a little longer to ask if Nick comes here often, and Greg finds himself scoffing at the cliché question. A little flicker of jealousy ignites when Nick answers back, saying maybe he will now. When she giggles and flicks her hips as she walks away, Greg's certain he won't be tipping her when the night is through. Which is weird. Never has he been so possessive of something that wasn't his. It's something he's realized just recently, that he'll fight tooth and nail for Nick's attention, even if he has to resort to playing dirty to take out the competition.

The waitress returns with freshly glossed lips, the water, and her phone number, all of which she gives to Nick. She plants an ostentatious peck on Nick's cheek, and Greg's pretty sure he's gaping like an idiot, but who would have thought waitresses could hit on their patrons? Nick laughs it off and sticks the phone number in his shirt pocket like the shameless flirt that he is, and Greg's flicker of jealousy turns to a raging fire. He orders another beer, or maybe it was a shot, something to get her to leave. She gives a lingering look at the cowboy, and Greg gives her five more seconds to leave before he fights her for Nick. Finally she's gone, and Greg is scowling at his empty beer bottle.

He nearly jumps out of his skin, though, when a heavy hand lands on his jiggling knee. And it just stays there.

Then there's breath, hot in his ear.

Nick's asking him if he wants to get out of here, puffing more hot air and drawling through the words with his delicious accent.

He's dumbstruck, utterly speechless. Must have passed out from the alcohol, because there's no way in hell Nick Stokes just asked him that. But the warm hand caressing his knee feels real enough.

Turns to look at Nick, expecting him to say he's just kidding and call Greg a pervert for saying yes. But the eyes he's looking at now hold no mirth; just a smoldering lust that Greg is pretty sure matches his. Breathlessly he nods, trying to articulate something, anything. What about Warrick and Cath, he tries to say, but it comes out more like CathRick, and Nick is laughing. Says to not worry about it as he throws three twenties on the table, covering both his and Greg's tabs.

Nick slides out of the booth, dragging Greg along by the hand and the heart. Greg can only dangle as the gorgeous man in front of him tugs on his hand. They're flying through the dance floor, getting jostled by the writhing figures in Greg's peripheral vision. Nick doesn't stop as he passes right by 'Rick, who tries to clap a hand on his shoulder but fails, his hands too full of Cath. If Greg was in his right might, he'd stop and gloat about how he knew they had a thing. But he's got his own situation to worry about, because now people from work have seen Nick dragging him out of a nightclub with one clear goal in mind. Before Greg can defend himself, though, they're outside, and Nick's fumbling with his keys. He has let go of Greg, and Greg realizes now just how drunk he is. There's only been a few times in his life that he's been this drunk: his twenty-first birthday when Papa Olaf gave him possibly the strongest alcohol he's tasted, graduation from Stanford, and a night a few weeks after the explosion, when he thought he could find pain relief at the bottom of a bottle of scotch. Each time, he found his balance nonexistent; one little nudge would send him sprawling. Speech would be slow and slurred, and his vision would inconsistently shift in and out of focus. Tonight is no different.

He had had more beers than usual tonight, first of all because it was his celebration, and second of all because Nick drove. Greg wonders if this had been Nick's plan all along.

Nick drops his keys with a curse, and Greg lets out a cross between a laugh and a strangled groan. His hormones jumped into overdrive the second Nick gripped his knee, and interruptions to their progress aren't welcomed. Nick laughs at the sound Greg makes, a light breathy one as he pants hard. Greg thinks he's never heard something so sexy. He watches from outside his brain as his own hands fist Nick's t-shirt and haul him close. Nick's hands land on either side of Greg's head, bracing him against the truck. The fun and games from seconds before is gone, now, as they soak up each other's gaze, both panting, sharing the same air.

It's like time freezes for a second; Greg can't tear his eyes away from Nick's. He can feel Nick reach inside and grip his soul, though his hands are still bracketing his head. His breath hitches in his chest as Nick's gaze changes, just a hair. There's lust, the same that was there earlier, but there's also something like hesitation. Greg ignores that flicker, and closes the distance between them, crashing their mouths together.

For a moment Nick's lips stay closed, his surprise evident. He obviously didn't expect Greg to take control of the situation. But with a satisfied sigh, he opens his mouth. As far as kisses go, this one is on the sloppier side, both men having had a beer too many. It's wet, teeth click. But then Greg is stroking Nick's tongue with his, and neither cares that they have no amount of grace and tenderness. Greg's dizziness has multiplied tenfold, he feels like he's spiraling off into space, though he can feel the concrete beneath his feet and the cold metal of the truck against his back. Nick is responding to the kiss eagerly, confirming Greg's interpretation of his intentions. He feels one of Nick's hands cup the back of his head, pulling him in closer so that their noses are smashed, as the other stays next to his head, holding Nick up. He can't think, his brain is short circuiting due to sensory overload. His world is immediately filled with everything Nick. He tastes beer and oranges, smells soap and lemons, hears breath drawn through the nose.

One thing Greg has learned is that even the smallest thing is better with anticipation. This kiss is five years in the making, and Greg wouldn't trade its sloppiness for the world. He moans petulantly as Nick pulls away and looks at him with dark eyes. The pupils are so dilated his eyes look almost black, sending a thrilling shiver down Greg's spine.

Nick fumbles with the keys before finally unlocking the door they've been leaning on. He grabs the front of Greg's shirt, pulling him forward roughly and opening the door. He just as roughly shoves Greg into the passenger seat without saying a word. Greg figures he probably wouldn't be so acquiescent if he were sober, but right now he couldn't fight off a four year old let alone Nick. Not that he wants to fight Nick. In fact, this situation is taking the direction that many of his more erotic dreams have taken, which makes him pinch his arm rather hard. He isn't dreaming.

Nick settles in the driver's seat, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel. He pants, staring straight ahead, for several tense moments. Greg rasps his name, and Nick starts slightly, quickly looks at Greg, and then jams the key in the ignition. The six cylinder engine roars to life, and in his drunken, lusty haze, the ride seems to slip by in seconds. In reality, it was almost a twenty minute drive from the bar to a quiet neighborhood several miles from the Strip. Greg recognizes Nick's house, he's only been a few times before for parties and competitive video game nights. Nick pulls into the garage and kills the engine.

They sit in the dark for several seconds before Nick asks if he wants to come in. There is a moment where neither says anything before both realize the absurdity of the question just voiced. Where else would Greg go without his car? So laughing and a little giddy, they get out of the truck and meet at the door to the house. Nick fumbles with his keys again, though the ride seems to have sobered him a little bit. His hands shake for an entirely different reason, but Greg has neither the time nor interest to notice. They're inside the laundry room now, and Greg presses Nick against the washing machine, kissing him hungrily.

Nick responds again to the kiss after several seconds of surprise. He pushes himself off the washing machine and steers them into the main part of the house.

They hit the wall in the hallway, ricocheting to the edge of the kitchen counter. They bounce off of that with a mild curse from Greg whose hip made contact with the corner, and they crash into a small hutch which hits the back of Nick's head. Surprisingly, their lips haven't parted, and their tongues are twining and exploring fiercely in the kiss.

Nick pushes them off the hutch, they sideswipe the coffee table, spinning them so that Greg is steering. Nick trips over his own feet, treads on Greg's, and falls backward, luckily landing on his worn sofa. The fall breaks their lip lock, and both stare at one another for several moments.

Nick is spread eagled on the couch, his head resting on the back as his chest heaves. Greg is standing a couple of feet away, his eyes closed as he sucks air in through his dark pink lips. Nick watches as Greg opens his eyes blearily, the alcohol still taking its toll on his senses. He takes in Nick's sprawled form, and moves to the sofa. Instead of a direct path, however, he weaves drunkenly, tilting to the left with his right hand thrown out for balance. Another step and he probably would have fallen, but he makes it the couch and straddles Nick's lap.

Nick looks at him with his brow slightly cinched, and places his hands on Greg's waist to steady him. Greg kisses him again, but moves from Nick's lips down his chin and along the line of his jaw. He draws his tongue along Nick's ear, delighting in the shudder from the older man. Greg sits back up, wills the room to stop spinning, and settles his hands on Nick's shoulders for support. The crease in Nick's brow deepens, and his once grinning lips droop. Greg continues, too lost in his fantasy to notice the change in Nick's demeanor. He slides his hands to Nick's chest, and begins on the first button of his shirt. After several minutes of slipping and missing, Greg considers just ripping the shirt off and buying a new one later. So he takes each side of the shirt and starts pulling, but Nick's hands come to rest on his own.

It seems like the room is spinning faster for Greg, he feels a little nauseous. He starts to sway from his perch upon Nick's knees, and he feels Nick's hands guide him to one side, so he's lying lengthwise along the couch. And then Nick is gone.

Greg hears a door slam deeper in the house, and the wave of confusion that hits him is utterly debilitating.

----------------------

Greg wonders who the hell he pissed off in order to deserve an ice pick lodged in his temple. Sunlight filters through his lids which are glued shut with sleep. He reaches to his bedside table, feeling for his watch to see how long he's been out. When his hand land on thin air and he unsticks his face from the surface it's resting on, Greg realizes he's not in his bed. Must have passed out on his couch, he can't really remember much, except for the colossal amount of alcohol he consumed, as signified by his throbbing head and churning stomach.

Slowly and carefully he peels his eyelids apart, wincing as the full force of daylight hits his eyes. He swears he can feel his pupils constricting to pinpoints, and he lets out a hearty groan. When the temporary blindness passes, Greg takes in his surroundings, looking for a glass of water he may have left on his coffee table. That's when he shoots up.

He's not in his apartment.

He's in his clothes, victim to a serious hangover, in someone else's house.

Then the floodgates open and the memories of last night come pouring through.

"Shit," he breathes.

He remembers passing his proficiency, he remembers champagne, a bar, beer, and...

Nick.

Oh god, he pushed Nick too far. Nick was...wait...Nick kissed him back, right? He throws an arm over his aching eyes as he remembers the way he ended up on Nick's couch.

"Shit," he whispers again, this time with a hint of a whimper.

He's got to leave. Uncovering his eyes, he glances around for a phone to call a cab. His eyes land on the coffee table, where there rests a bottle of water and three Advil capsules.

A familiar rush of confusion hits him as he swallows the pills before gulping down half of the water. Nick left him pain relievers after Greg forced himself on him? Waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in, Greg rested his head against the back of the couch, holding the cool water to his forehead.

It had been Nick's idea to leave, but Greg had kissed him. Nick drove them to his house, but Greg jumped him in the living room. Nick had kissed him back, but had he really wanted things to go as far as Greg wanted? He remembered trying to get Nick out of his shirt, he couldn't for some reason. That's when Nick left him on the couch.

"Oh no," Greg whispers. He hopes he hasn't ruined their friendship, because he'd miss that. Nick is the only one that treats him like a comrade, not a younger, annoying brother. He always had a crush on the older man, but when Nick started to flirt back, that was when a little flame of hope was kindled.

Last night's alcohol and Nick's subtle encouragement turned the flame into an inferno. Except Greg was the one that ended up burned.

With a slow sigh, Greg stands up, willing the dizziness in his head to settle.

That's when there's a scraping and rattle at the door. It swings open, admitting a panting, sweaty Nick. He's dressed in basketball shorts, a grey short-sleeved t-shirt, and running shoes, betraying exactly where he had been, if the sweat on his forehead and the water bottle in his hand did not.

Both stand perfectly still, staring the other down. Nick's shoulder's rise and fall with his pants, which haven't slowed from his run. Greg watches an idle bead of sweat drip from Nick's hairline, down his cheek, to drip off onto his soaked t-shirt.

Greg is suddenly scared out of his mind. What if he had read Nick completely wrong? What if Nick was going to kick his ass? Nick may not be as tall as him, but the Texan definitely beats him in the muscle area. Nick would have him on the floor in seconds.

Then Nick takes a step toward Greg, the look in his eye comparable to the eyes of feral animals. Greg takes a step backward, raising his hands defensively.

Nick stops, raises an eyebrow. "Did you take the Advil?" And Greg is sick of getting hit by brick walls of confusion, because his life was flashing before his eyes as Nick advanced on him.

Not being able to summon his voice, which seems to have fallen out of him along with his stomach, Greg nods.

"Good," he growls. "Because we need to talk."

Greg nods again, aware of the fact that his mouth is hanging open and his hands are still perched in between their bodies.

"I need to shower. Take a seat, Greg. When I get out, we'll go get breakfast." He holds Greg's gaze with his own and slowly, ever so slowly plants a gentle hand on Greg's chest. He pushes Greg towards the couch before turning and fleeing to his room.

Greg hears the shower turn on, and he falls backwards onto the cushions. He can't believe that just happened, that he didn't get his ass beaten by the ex-jock. No. Instead said jock wants to talk, to get breakfast and talk. Greg can't decide if things are going to get better; Nick used his name, not any of the nicknames he usually uses. Then again, he didn't kick Greg's ass. He's so stunned with the current situation that he can't even move the couple of feet to reach the remote, so he just sits on the couch. Looking around the room nervously, Greg lets out a hysterical whoop at the A&M rug covering the floor, but sobers immediately as he catches sight of the large area of the ceiling that was replastered after a madman crashed through it. It surprises Greg that Nick can still live here; he remembers every detail of the case, having had his own guilt trip for the departmental flyers issue. He knows that if it were his house, he would have been out of there the second he could. It was hard enough returning to the lab after the explosion.

Nick stalks out of his room, finding Greg sitting stock still on the sofa. He backs to his room, holding his palm to his forehead. He needs to keep it together if he's going to say what he's going to say. A couple deep breaths and a mental pep talk later, Nick walks back out to find Greg in the exact same position.

"Have you moved?" he asks. Greg jumps; his head snaps over to look at Nick, eyes round. He shakes his head and then winces, remembering his hangover. "Let's go."

------------

"You boys have a good breakfast now," another buxom waitress informs them as she sets plates of food in front of them.

"Thank you," Nick says politely before adding ketchup to his scrambled eggs. She walks off with a bright smile and not a second glance to Greg.

Not that Greg notices, because he's currently gulping down his second cup of coffee and hoping that Nick will say something soon. The silence is deafening, and Greg can't stand being in limbo about what Nick thinks of him.

"Eat your bacon, G," Nick says through a mouthful of eggs. At least this time he used a nickname. Greg takes a bite, but it's like cardboard. Maybe if he weren't dying of anticipation, he'd realize that he is ravenous, but Nick is calmly cutting his pancakes and not talking.

So Greg throws his bacon down on the plate. "Nick, what the hell are we doing?" he asks in a low voice.

Nick looks up at him and stops mid-chew. He stares for a couple intense seconds, Greg writhing uncomfortably in his chair. He then sets his fork down calmly and finishes chewing, taking all the time in the world. He wipes his mouth, and pulls his chair in further to the table. He draws a deep sigh.

"Greg," he says, looking straight into the younger man's eyes. "I'm gay."

Greg only nods, he's so surprised. He always thought, along with everyone else, that Nick was straight as they come. The man constantly talked about his female conquests, so for Greg, best case scenario was that Nick swung both ways and just wouldn't give him the time of day.

"Are you just fucking with me, Stokes?" Greg asks, feeling a little put down. "I know what I did last night, but I was completely shit-faced."

He watches a new emotion flit through Nick's gaze, one that looks surprisingly like pain.

"No, Greg," he says quietly. "I like men."

"Oh yeah? What about that hooker girl? Kristy?" He feels like an ass for bringing that whole ordeal up, but last time he checked gay guys did not sleep with women, even if they were good looking enough to get a prostitute to sleep with them for free.

"Kristy was..." Nick trails off. He closes his eyes and appears to be gathering the right words. "Greg, I've only realized recently. With Kristy, I considered myself to swing both ways. We had a connection and we acted impulsively. But if I'm being honest, I didn't feel much. So for a couple of years I slept around, and I found out I got a bigger thrill from the guys rather than the girls. Does that answer your question?"

Greg nods. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to bring it up," Greg says truthfully. "It's just that...people who are queer have this innate self preservation thing. We have to make sure people are telling the truth when they say things like that."

"I understand."

"So..."

"I want to be with you." Greg knocks over the salt shaker he was reaching for in his astonishment.

"You know I'm gay?" Greg asks. Nick only nods. "Then what was with last night?"

Nick sighs and passes a hand over his face.

"How much did you drink last night?"

Greg shrugs. "A lot. More than usual."

"Exactly."

"What?"

"G, last night, I wanted to fuck you senseless-"

"Why didn't you?"

"You were so drunk you couldn't unbutton my shirt, G. I-"

"You wouldn't sleep with me because I was drunk? You were drunk too-"

"Will you stop interrupting me? I realized while you were messing with my shirt that I want you, and not in the sex way. G, I thought about this all night: you're what I want now, tomorrow, next week, next year, and forever."

Greg pauses to pick his jaw up off the floor. "You're joking, right? I get it, Warrick and the team is here, it's some kind of CSI hazing, I knew you guys would get me somehow-"

"Greg."

"-like Grissom with his drain experiment, thought I was-"

"Greg."

"-pee in a cup! I almost died when he asked me to fill the tub-"

"Greg!" Greg stops talking mid-sentence and stares at Nick with his mouth still slightly open. "I'm not kidding."

"So why didn't you sleep with me? I thought that's what couples did?"

"Greg, I want our first time to be one, more special than a drunken one night stand and two, I want you sober enough to get my shirt off."

Greg takes in Nick's proposition quietly, picking up the salt shaker. "Why didn't you say something sooner? I've been into you forever. I would have said yes in a heartbeat."

"This last year, G, I've been hanging around some clubs. The guys I would gravitate towards were all slender, slightly awkward, and gorgeously intelligent. Sound familiar?"

"You didn't know you were attracted to me?"

"Not until a couple weeks ago. When you found that little boy's body, the one who'd been neglected by his hooker aunt, you were so broken. I realized then, right then, that I wanted to be the one to fix you. It wasn't just that moment, really. I didn't realize that I'd flirted back all these years, that I would come to your lab just for a quick laugh, just to see you. If that's not worth something, then what is?"

Greg is silent as he digests this new information. He hadn't kept his sexuality a secret, so anyone who asked got the truth, but he also didn't trumpet it throughout the lab. He didn't think that Nick knew, so he flirted shamelessly, always trying to get Nick to smile his bright smile and lay a hand on his shoulder. How had he not realized that Nick was gay?

"So..." he starts, idly drawing his finger through the spilled salt. "Does this count as our first date? Because I want to be with you, too."

Nick smiles and places his hand over Greg's. "I guess it is, G. It's a fresh start from last night, that's for sure."

Greg beams, scoops up some of the spilled salt and throws it over his shoulder.

***